


you're just a chance i take.

by redhoods



Series: fictober 2019. [11]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Established Relationship, FIGHT!, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, hubert's willingness to die vs linhardt's unwillingness to let anyone die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-20 16:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21059459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhoods/pseuds/redhoods
Summary: Linhardt sighs quietly and ventures further into the tent, “What have you done to yourself this time?”“You assume I’ve done this to myself?” Hubert asks, though his tone is flat, trying to cover his pain, which is frankly insulting to Linhardt, Hubert should know better by now. He’s not looking to see the disapproval though, is instead setting about removing his cloak, his coat.Removing his coat, his concession to the chill of the Kingdom around them, Linhardt starts rolling his sleeves up, “If you’re looking to me for help, rather than an actual medic, you’re looking to keep something quiet.” It’s not as though he disapproves of that though, even knowing the little that he does of Hubert’s work, he’s aware of how Hubert tends to play close to his chest.





	you're just a chance i take.

**Author's Note:**

> fictober. day whatever. scarred.
> 
> this hit me like a full speed freight train. that is to say, really very hard. i don't really know how non combat phase magic works or crests but like. i care not a bit.
> 
> title from hideaway by kiesza.

“We have perfectly serviceable medics,” Linhardt finds himself saying as one of Hubert’s little shadow underlings scurries off to no doubt wreak unseen terror on some poor, probably deserving fool elsewhere. The sounds of camp are far off here, in Hubert’s tent, and he’s maybe a little surprised to find that Hubert’s tent isn’t next to Edelgard’s. Looking around the space though, he realizes this is less a proper tent and more a mobile laboratory.

Then he finally turns his gaze to Hubert, the shape him almost disappearing into the dim shadows of the tent, on a too small cot tucked into the very corner. His face seems impossibly paler and the only other sign that he’s in pain is the light sheen of sweat coating his face.

His lip curls in response.

Linhardt sighs quietly and ventures further into the tent, “What have you done to yourself this time?”

“You assume I’ve done this to myself?” Hubert asks, though his tone is flat, trying to cover his pain, which is frankly insulting to Linhardt, Hubert should know better by now. He’s not looking to see the disapproval though, is instead setting about removing his cloak, his coat.

Removing his coat, his concession to the chill of the Kingdom around them, Linhardt starts rolling his sleeves up, “If you’re looking to me for help, rather than an actual medic, you’re looking to keep something quiet.” It’s not as though he disapproves of that though, even knowing the little that he does of Hubert’s work, he’s aware of how Hubert tends to play close to his chest.

Everything for Edelgard and her dreams, even to his own detriment.

Linhardt doesn’t understand it per se, but he admires the dedication.

Hubert stands and his hands aren’t shaking as he slowly unbuttons his shirt, “It’s not to keep anything quiet,” he says, his hair curtaining most of his face, “You do have a talent for discretion, but it’s more your tendency to being—” he cuts himself off, eyebrows pulling together, lips pinching, “—less loud in your judgments.”

“Ah,” Linhardt says, “you do not wish Ferdinand to know.”

Hubert actually hisses at him at that, like somehow simply speaking Ferdinand’s name will bring him in in a cloud of fragrant air and orange curls.

It might actually.

Waving his hand, Linhardt sighs, “You know, I don’t like to be in the middle of—” Hubert snorts, “—hush you. I do not wish to get into your, whatever it is the two of you do to each other. Your escalating ribbing and digging,” it’s not the best phrasing, but he finds himself unsure of how to classify Hubert and Ferdinand’s weird flirtations.

“I think it’s too late for that,” Hubert points out and he’s probably right.

The topic drops though as Hubert rolls his shoulders back, letting his shirt slide down until he takes it in his hands, fastidious as he folds it and places it on the cot with his coat and cloak.

And Linhardt has seen Hubert in every stage of undress there possibly is, certainly appreciates the width of his pale shoulders, his slender waist, has spent his share of time cataloguing and tracing his many scars. It still leaves him off step though, when Hubert turns his back, to see his newest addition, the large swathe of it creeping from below his ribcage.

It’s like spiderwebs, branching across his back, down to his pants, around his front.

“Hubert,” he says lowly, then again, louder, “_Hubert_.”

The lightning wound is fresh, but their most recent battle was still three days ago and Linhardt knows that Hubert has been by Edelgard’s side for these three days, helping plan the next assault.

“Linhardt,” Hubert replies quietly, warning in his tone.

As if his warning has ever meant a damn thing to Linhardt. He sighs loudly through his nose and pushes off the table he’d unconsciously leaned against, closing the distance between them in quick strides. Their height difference is not insignificant all things considered, but hunched like he is, Hubert seems much closer to his level than usual and while he usually leaves these sorts of confrontations to Ferdinand, concern is sour in his belly and he lets that propel him.

He gets right into Hubert’s space, knows that Hubert has at least four blades on him right now as well as he knows that Hubert won’t go for a single one of them. “Hubert,” he says, when they’re as eye to eye as they can be, the toes of his shoes against the toes of Hubert’s boots.

It’s telling that Hubert won’t meet his gaze, won’t rise to this challenge.

Closer, face to face, he can see the dark smudges under his eyes, the way his lower lip has teeth indents pressed into it. Linhardt exhales, reaches out and takes one of his gloved hands, and when there’s no protest, removes it. There’s bruises on his palm, where he’s been digging his own fingers in.

He presses his forehead to Hubert’s bare shoulder and inhales shakily, “You stupid man,” he says quietly, to Hubert’s scarred skin, “I ought to tell him,” he adds, “I ought to tell _her_.”

Hubert locks up against him, body going stiff in an instant.

Linhardt touches his uninjured side, “I won’t,” he reassures, though he probably doesn’t need to, “but next time, I’m coming to you after the fight,” he adds, lifting up to catch Hubert’s gaze, “I don’t care where you are or who you’re talking to, either you let me look or I tell both of them.”

It’s a battle of wills that Hubert seems to realize he’s not going to win because his shoulders hunch and he relaxes, jerks his chin in a nod.

“Stubborn man,” Linhardt chastises quickly, then shuffles back a few inches, pushing at Hubert’s side to turn him. The only upside to this is that Linhardt hasn’t burned any magic today. He traces his fingers, gentle and light around the lightning marks, “How did this happen? Where was your band of merry guard dogs?”

Hubert laughs lowly, chin to his chest, “Felix had already taken one to the chest, he only woke up yesterday,” he says quiet, though there’s that quiet thread of concern that Linhardt has learned to hear over the months.

Linhardt had been on the other side of the field, guarding Ferdinand’s flank while he’d lanced through soldiers with terrifying ease. “Is he alright?” He asks, realizing it’s why he also hadn’t seen a trace of Sylvain near any of the planning for their next push into the Kingdom.

“Pissed,” Hubert says and Linhardt hums.

It’s quiet once more, the sounds of camp still far away as he reaches the ends of the branching wounds, “Ready,” he says, a warning and his hands glow, bright in the dim tent. The creeping veins of scarring retreat a little.

Hubert’s exhale is very loud and his gloveless hand wraps around Linhardt’s forearm, fingers digging in a little. His still gloved hand is flexing at his side and Linhardt watches the rhythmic tensing and relaxing until it relaxes, fingers uncurling.

“Again,” he warns, casting the spell again. He touches his forehead to the space between Hubert’s shoulders, watching more lines ease back.

There’s nothing but their quiet breathing now, like they’ve been bubbled in a silence spell.

It makes him wish he’d ever had the capacity to take Recover, but this will have to work, “Hubert,” he says quietly, still there, “This wasn’t Thoron,” he accuses, realization sinking into him like a yawning pit, he touches his fingers closer, casts again without warning.

His crest flares bright, too close to his face and he blinks spots away.

Hubert makes a low sound in front of him, “You’re far too smart for your own good, Linhardt,” his voice is quiet, hoarse, and it’s not the warning it usually is, nor is it the tone he uses when he’s accusing Linhardt of being lazy, of not being as useful as he could be. It seems to be an actual, genuine compliment, and Hubert’s shoulders lift as he sighs loudly.

Linhardt lifts his head, frowning at Hubert’s back, the wound still taking up a great expanse of his skin, “This could have killed you,” he carries on, now that he’s gathered steam, “This would have killed me in one hit,” he adds and pretends that his voice isn’t trembling, “You’ve been walking around for three days like this and I’ve never wanted to hurt _anyone_ but right now, I’d really like to strangle you.”

It’s easier when Hubert’s facing away, not looking at him with that too knowing citrine gaze.

“You should know by now—”

And Linhardt is scared he realizes, digs his thumb in, not even against the wound, but Hubert cuts off with a hiss, “Please, I do not wish to hear about your reckless, dying devotion to your lady.”

The terror takes root deep in his chest, his heart thumping loud in his chest, and he takes a step away to breathe, to scrub his hand over his eyes, turning his back to Hubert now as he stares down at his own shaking hands, clean and pale and his long fingers that could have been used for so much but are instead being used to keep his friends together and alive.

There’s no sound behind him and he thinks he’d be lucky to hear anything over the sound of his own breathing, especially Hubert who always moves with such quiet, efficient grace that Dorothea once presented him a ribbon with a bell on it, her smile saccharinely sweet.

Caspar had laughed himself into histrionics over it.

Still, the hand that touches his back does not startle him, nor does the easy tug that pulls him right into Hubert’s still bare chest. Hubert’s other hand, still bare of his glove, scarred and so deadly, presses to his chest, a reminding weight, “Breathe, Linhardt.”

Oh, he realizes with a dull sense of hilarity, a panic attack.

It takes some tremendous effort and he’s going to nap for the rest of the day once he finishes healing Hubert as best he can, but he draws in a breath that burns, then another, realizing that Hubert is counting them out for him, though it sounds like he’s far away.

Of course, that’s when the tent flap lifts and sounds from outside filters in a little louder.

Linhardt blinks a few times, trying to shake off the dark haze of panic and Hubert’s hand is still on his chest, and the world comes into focus, “Ah, Ferdinand,” he says, trying for casual, removed, but the sound scrapes out of him.

And Ferdinand startles at that, releasing the tent flap like he’d forgotten he was still holding it open, “Linhardt, you sound awful,” he says, then his cheeks pink, “What I mean to say is, are you alright?”

The hand against his chest curls a little into the material of his clothing and when Linhardt opens his mouth to reply, Hubert beats him to it, “He was,” he stops himself, inhaling, bracing himself, “He was seeing to a wound for me.”

“A wound?” The steps Ferdinand takes forward are hesitant, not at all his usual style and Linhardt can see the pieces turning to fit together in his mind.

Extracting himself from Hubert, Linhardt touches his shoulder, “Might as well show him,” he says quietly, “let me finish.” His heart is still beating oddly and too hard in his chest, especially with the realization of what Hubert is doing here and now.

Hubert’s chin jerks in a nod and Ferdinand is finally close enough to touch and Linhardt watches the way he touches Ferdinand’s jaw, the way he tucks an errant curl behind his ear, so gentle. Then he drops his hand, shoulders drawing up as he turns his back to the both of them.

Ferdinand’s gasp is loud in the quiet of the tent, and his hand trembles when he reaches out, though he doesn’t touch. His gaze moves from Hubert’s back to Linhardt, who meets his gaze as steady as he can, “You’ve already started healing it?”

He holds up three fingers.

“Oh.”

Stepping back in, the three of them forming a slightly uneven triangle, Linhardt touches Hubert’s back gently, mindful not to dig in this time like he had in his fear and panic, “Again,” he says quietly and casts. A hand touches his back when the spell dissipates and Ferdinand slides an arm around him from behind, tucks against his back. There’s a fine tremor running through him and Linhardt’s teasing call of limpet dies on his tongue before he can release it.

There’s something to be said for Ferdinand’s optimism in a time of war and it’s moments like these that Linhardt sees the full depth of how hard he works to maintain that optimism.

He lifts one hand from Hubert to touch Ferdinand’s tugging his hand and adding it to his own on Hubert’s back as well, even if it squeezes the three of them in tighter, leaves him little space to work.

Ferdinand gently quakes behind him and Hubert makes a questioning sound, turns enough to look at the two of them, face going slack in quiet surprise.

“Again,” he warns quietly, his voice the only thing heard over the three of them breathing so close together. The glow doesn’t expand like it usually would, obscured in part by Ferdinand’s hand, but Ferdinand makes a quiet sound at his back.

“It’s warm,” Ferdinand says, like he hasn’t been healed by this same sort of magic before, but he carries on, “I’ve always thought it was the pain that felt so warm, not the magic.”

Sometimes he forgets that of the three of them, Ferdinand casts no magic.

He could, Linhardt knows, if he were to study towards it, but his focus is on his lancework and his riding skills and both of those have proven as invaluable as his counsel to Edelgard, as much as that puts him at odds with Hubert.

“It depends on the type of magic,” Hubert says lowly, like he hasn’t made an almost sport of sticking his magic cold hands on the both of them.

“Explains why your hands are always warm, Lin,” Ferdinand tells him, chin over his shoulder now, rather than hiding behind it. His thumb is making small arcs against Hubert’s back now, fingers still halfway overlapping Linhardt’s.

The wound is still too big for his liking and Linhardt hums quietly, “You owe me a very long, uninterrupted nap, Hubert,” he says in warning and casts again. Ferdinand’s arm around him squeezes once, like a reassurance or an agreeance, though he couldn’t say which.

Hubert’s shoulders loosen and Linhardt thinks they’re finally making forward progress, though he looks over his shoulder again, “You know, the whole time you’ve been in here, I’ve yet to see you yawn once.”

Linhardt sighs loudly, “Perhaps that is because my concern is outweighing my exhaustion at the present moment,” he says with more bite than he means and casts again.

“Don’t think I haven’t put together what’s going on here either, von Vestra,” Ferdinand points out, that low thread of battlefield commander and future minister threading through his words in a way that usually leaves Linhardt unaffected, if they weren’t brushed right across his ear, if he couldn’t feel the way that Hubert’s back flexes at it. Like he’s going to straighten, square himself off to accept a command, but just holds off.

There’s a moment when Linhardt’s expecting a smart comeback, can hear Hubert’s _’not as daft as you seem then, von Aegir’_, but it never comes.

Instead, he’s left watching the rise and fall of Hubert’s shoulders, the stretch of the lightning webbing as his ribcage expands and contracts. Then so very quietly, Hubert says, “I do not wish to die,” like it’s dragged out of him, like he’s somehow ashamed of admitting it, “I do not wish to leave either of you.”

Linhardt doesn’t have a comment, can’t even pull together the brain power to cast again.

Ferdinand is much better at these things thankfully and his arm withdraws, though Linhardt feels the kiss to his shoulder before Ferdinand is stepping around him and Hubert both, until he’s toe to toe with Hubert now. Boxing him in is usually a terrible idea, bound to make Hubert jumpy and irritable but Linhardt steps closer to his back, still mindful of his wound, touches his lips to the middle of his upper back, can just see Ferdinand’s hand on his jaw from this angle.

“Asking for help is not a weakness,” Ferdinand says quietly, so earnest, “We want to help and we don’t want to lose you.”

“Stop being an idiot,” he adds helpfully, to Hubert’s back.

Ferdinand sighs noisily, but Hubert huffs out a quiet sound that might be bordering on a laugh. “Tactfully put, thank you, Linhardt, I was hoping that was implied.”

Linhardt grins, casts the spell again, says, “Not loudly enough for this one.”

“Alright, that’s enough, don’t use up all your magic on me,” Hubert interrupts finally, one hand reaching back, and Linhardt lets himself be pulled forwards, the three of them back into their odd triangle. “I will make sure you get your deserved nap and dinner.”

“Upping the ante, very smart,” Linhardt says, “but we will truly only be even if you both join me.”

Protests are gearing up, he can see both of them formulating why it is they can’t rest for a few hours, despite the fact that he knows for certain that the two of them have hardly slept for weeks. 

Surprisingly, Hubert is the first to cave with a yawn, jaw cracking, swaying on his feet sort of yawn, “Ah, perhaps you’re on to something,” he says knuckles against his mouth. It goes a long way to making him seem more human in any case.

Ferdinand turns away and comes back with Hubert’s clothing, helps him into his shirt, “I will make the detour for food and meet you both at Hubert’s tent,” he says, deft fingers making quick work of Hubert’s buttons. “I think I may still have a bit of wine left as well,” he adds.

Linhardt hums quietly as he shakes Hubert’s cloak out for him, leaving Ferdinand to help him into his coat, “Wonderful plan, Ferdinand,” and relishes in the sunny smile he gets.

The picture Ferdinand and Hubert present is striking, the sort of image that Linhardt feels privileged to witness, the way Ferdinand’s smooths his hands across Hubert’s shoulders, straightening his coat, the way Hubert curls towards him. Hubert’s hand is gentle when he brushes his knuckles over Ferdinand’s cheek, when he cups his jaw, draws him into a short kiss.

It’s the sort of view that makes Linhardt wish he were any good at art.

Then Hubert is turning to him, reaching out to cup his hip, draw him close enough to press their lips together and he stops trying to think of what color flowers might give him Ferdinand’s specific hair color.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm @vowofenmity on twitter


End file.
